


Talk to Me Like Lovers Do

by remiges



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Flirting, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Obliviousness, Polyamory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-04
Updated: 2019-07-04
Packaged: 2020-05-16 09:31:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19315429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/remiges/pseuds/remiges
Summary: "If we were on theTitanic, I'd leave you in the water even if that door was big enough for both of us," Kris threatens."Are you Rose?" Marc asks, grinning. "You don't want to be Jack?"Kris scowls. "I'm going to be whoever means you get turned into a giant icicle."





	Talk to Me Like Lovers Do

**Author's Note:**

  * For [yeswayappianway](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeswayappianway/gifts).



> Hi, yeswayappianway! I hope you enjoy. <3
> 
> I left everyone's children out of this fic. Title is from [Taking Chances](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DpZu2AdqtY8) by Celine Dion.

Marc knows it's sacrilegious considering his line of work, but he loves the stretch of time before the regular season starts. It's not that he doesn't love hockey—he does, very much so—but there's just something about the _anticipation_ of it all. His teammates are trickling back to Pittsburgh with tans and new stories, and everything feels fresh, especially the ice. Soon the whirlwind will start up again, and Marc's looking forward to that, but he doesn't mind if it takes its time. 

"What are you thinking about?" Kris asks. They're winding their way downtown, following the instructions coming from the GPS, and this is something else Marc loves: going out for lunch with his friend. Technically they have lunch together all the time, but it feels different when it's just the two of them. 

"Not much," he says, answering Kris' question. He fiddles with the vent. "Are you going to tell me where we're going yet?" 

"It'll ruin the surprise," Kris tells him, hands loose on the steering wheel. "You'll like it though, it's right up your alley."

"If you haven't been here before, that seems like a pretty big promise," Marc points out. He can't tell, but he's pretty sure that behind his sunglasses Kris just rolled his eyes. 

"Yeah, but I know you." 

He's got Marc there. 

The place they pull up to is tiny, crammed between a florist and a discount glasses store, but the strip looks well maintained. The awning of the restaurant is a deep purple, and the shrubs on either side of the door are vibrant in their speckled pots. Lettering on the window proclaims the restaurant serves pasta, soup, and salads, and Marc can just make out what looks like a jukebox through the glare coming off the glass. 

"I told you you'd like it," Kris says, sliding his sunglasses into the pocket on his shirt as he joins Marc on the sidewalk. 

"We'll see," Marc says, even though Kris is right. He doesn't want his head to get any bigger, and anyway, they still have to try the food. "After you." 

The decor inside is simple, bold prints on the walls and a black-and-white checkered floor. The smell is heavenly, a blend of garlic and basil and fresh bread, and Marc feels his mouth start watering. A waitress with a full sleeve of tattoos leads them to the only available booth, and she takes their drink order with a professional smile. After she's gone, Marc slides out from his side, making a face at the way the vinyl clings to the backs of his thighs, and moves around to sit with Kris. 

"What," Kris says, staring at him. 

"That side is sticky. Scoot over, your butt isn't that big. And don't," he continues, "even suggest moving to a table." 

"You and tables, I swear to god," Kris sighs. 

"Everyone knows booths are better," Marc argues. "Anyone who says differently is lying." 

"A table probably wouldn't have sticky chairs," Kris points out, like he knows anything about it. Marc opens up his menu and pretends to ignore him. He thinks it would probably work better if they were sitting opposite each other, but there's no way he's switching back now. 

After their food has been ordered—Marc had settled on meatball carbonara and Kris had gotten the fettuccini—he leans back in his seat and takes everything in. The atmosphere is nice—a bit loud, but not too loud—and someone has put a string of songs on the jukebox. Marc taps his foot absently to the music while he and Kris talk, their knees brushing occasionally. He doesn't know how long their food is going to be, what with how full the place is, but he doesn't mind waiting. 

Over the sound system, someone breaks through the chatter. "This one goes out to Maria," says a voice like silk. "Happy birthday, and many more to come." Celebration starts playing, and a group at one of the big tables starts talking louder and laughing. Maria—at least, who Marc assumes is Maria judging by the pink tiara perched on top of her gray hair—does a little dance in her wheelchair. 

"Do you think anybody has really specific themed jukeboxes?" Kris asks, idly fiddling with his straw. "Not country or classics or whatever, but like… EDM. French rap. Sex songs." 

Marc nearly snorts water out his nose. "You think people ought to start putting jukeboxes in sex clubs?" 

"I'm just saying, are there?" Kris continues, undaunted. "I'd go for something like that." 

"Deviant," Marc accuses, but he's already thinking about the jukebox up front and whether he has any quarters on him or not. Do jukeboxes still take quarters, or is it dollars now? He guesses he'll find out. 

Marc waits until their food has come, and then excuses himself to go to the bathroom. He makes a detour to the jukebox afterwards, checking to make sure Kris isn't watching, then heads to the counter to see if he can sweet-talk them into doing a dedication as well. 

"This one goes out to Kristopher," that same smooth voice says, a few songs later. "Congratulations on a very special day." 

"Did you do that?" Kris asks as My Heart Will Go On starts playing. " _Why_?" 

"What, I you thought said you wanted something sexy?" Marc says, feigning surprise. "I could have sworn Cath told me this was on your sex mix." He laughs as Kris shoves him, and barely avoids knocking over his water with an elbow. 

"If we were on the _Titanic_ , I'd leave you in the water even if that door was big enough for both of us," Kris threatens. 

"Are you Rose?" Marc asks, grinning. "You don't want to be Jack?"

Kris scowls. "I'm going to be whoever means you get turned into a giant icicle. You realize we have to listen to the rest of this song now, don't you?" 

"Celine Dion is a national treasure," Marc says loyally, and the conversation turns to singers before meandering back to the upcoming training camp. 

Their waitress comes by to refill their drinks, and when she smiles at them there's something soft in her expression that Marc can't work out. He looks at Kris, trying to see what she does. Kris' arm is slung over the back of their shared booth, warm where it brushes against Marc's shoulder, and his hair is in perfect disarray. He smells like citrus and a hint of sweat from this close, and he's stealing Marc's bite-sized meatballs off his plate. 

Date, he realizes. She thinks this is a date. Or more likely an anniversary, seeing as they're both wearing wedding bands. 

It's like the whole scene shifts, just a little, and comes into startling focus. Marc's sure he's staring like an idiot, because… no. No, he would have figured out before now if he had feelings for Kris.

"These meatballs are really terrible, don't eat any," Kris says, oblivious. He snags another one with obvious relish, and at this rate Marc's going to be stuck eating Kris' fettuccini if he wants lunch at all. "You know that place on Chestnut? We should go there again, Sid told me they've remodeled."

"Sure," Marc says absently, not paying attention to what he's agreeing to. He can feel his heart beating in his stomach, this wild, fledgling thing. "That sounds… sure." 

Kris glances over at him, and he's so deeply familiar that for a moment Marc convinces himself he's imagining things. He's attracted to him, but he's always been vaguely attracted to him. He's never wanted to do anything about it before: hold his hand or kiss him or fuck him against a wall. It's just… the weather or something. It'll pass in a minute. 

There's a commotion at the table with the birthday party as the waitstaff bring out a cake. The guest of honor, Maria, lifts what must be her great-granddaughter into her lap and tells her to blow out the candles. At least, Marc assumes that's what she says—she's speaking Spanish, and it's a little hard to hear over the rumble of the other diners. 

The little girl must manage, judging by the clapping and boisterous cheers, but Marc's only got eyes for Kris. His head is turned just right, and the light from the window is making his irises glow amber. It only lasts a moment, but it's inexplicably dazzling. That feeling doesn't leave Marc even when the light shifts. 

At the other table, the little girl is still clapping her pudgy hands together with uncoordinated glee. Kris smiles, soft and small. 

And Marc thinks, oh. 

Oh fuck.

***

"Hey, Vero?" Marc calls when he gets home. "I think I did something really stupid." 

Vero must hear something in his voice, because she comes out of their bedroom while doing up the clasp on her bra. "What's going on?" she asks. She's got her 'we can pour cement and put the body in there' face on, so maybe he sounded too dire, but god, he loves her. He really, really loves her. 

Marc sits down on the couch, and Vero perches opposite him on the coffee table. "I think I'm into Kris," he says, watching her face. She nods, her expression serious, but doesn't say anything. "Like, _into_ him." 

There's a pause, and Marc lets his eyes drop to the curve of her stomach, the hint of her underwear peeking above her jeans. He's not worried about what she's going to say, not really. Hadn't even considered not telling her. Maybe he would have if they were a different couple, had different needs, but they aren't. Still, the longer she's quiet, the more unsettled he gets. 

Then, "Jesus, Marc, you really had me worried." He looks up, startled. "That's it? I thought this was serious." 

"It _is_ serious," he stresses. "I'm not… I'm into Kris. Like, fuck me over a table, hold hands in the park, into him."

"No, I get that," Vero says, untwisting a bra strap and relaxing back onto her hands. "I just—maybe I'm missing something, but I don't see a problem here. Are he and Cath not seeing other people now?" 

Kris and Cath were like them in that they weren't monogamous, and as far as Marc knew, that hadn't changed recently. 

Still. "He's married," Marc says inanely. The wedding had been a couple of months ago. 

"We're married," Vero points out. "Listen, give me a minute to tell Simone I can't make it, I'll be right back." 

"Wait," he says, snagging her wrist as she starts to get up. "Do you have a date? You don't have to cancel just for this." 

Vero gives him a look. "Honey, I honestly thought you were going to tell me that you'd hit someone with your car and put the body in the trunk. Simone can survive without me, she knows you come first." 

"No, I feel bad," Marc admits. "You should go." Simone works at a boutique, though that's not how she and Vero had met, and her schedule changes a lot. Marc doesn't know her well, but she's cute and fun, and according to Vero the sex is scorching. It's not serious, but Vero pretty much only does serious with him. That's no reason to interrupt their date.

"Marc," Vero says, verging toward exasperated. "Why don't you make some tea? I'll be just a minute." 

"But—" 

She gives him a look. He puts the kettle on. 

It feels like it should be later in the day, like a realization of such magnitude should at least disrupt the flow of time, but it isn't. It's barely one. The early afternoon light pools on the countertop, and Marc leans back against the island and closes his eyes. 

He doesn't know how long he's wanted Kris, but now that he's realized it's devastating in its intensity. The possibility of them doing anything together had never come up before, even though sometimes Vero and Cath tie each other up recreationally. It had never _needed_ to come up, Marc thought. He guesses he was wrong about that. 

He can't tell when his feelings changed—if they ever did—or if this is just the first time he's acknowledged them. Either way, the outcome is the same.

"Hey," Vero says softly from beside him, and Marc opens his eyes. 

"Hey." 

She leans up against the counter, fully dressed now, and they wait for the water to boil. 

Vero does casual. She has a higher sex drive than him, and while she has a number of semi-regular partners, she likes the variety of fucking new people. Sometimes he'll go out with her when she's picking up, but not always. He'll hear about it either way. 

Technically, she was the first person to fuck him. It was her dildo, and he'd jokingly asked her to use it on him, enough to play it off if she'd looked weirded out or disgusted. She hadn't, though. She hadn't looked like that at all. 

They've been a lot of each other's firsts. She was there when the first person with a dick attached fucked him, and they'd had their first foursome together, their first orgy. They've lost various virginities and shared partners and tried all sorts of sex together, but it's not… just sex. That's not why he loves her, and it's not why she loves him. It's simply something they share. 

Marrying your high school sweetheart is one of those things people think is either stupidly romantic or just plain stupid. As far as Marc can tell, you're either viewed as fairytale material or talked about in faintly patronizing tones. _Didn't see enough of the world. Didn't fuck enough people. Settled._

It's different with them because they'd gotten married later in life, and obviously a lot of those assumptions are incorrect, but Marc dares anyone to think he's settled. 

The water in the kettle rumbles against the metal as it starts to boil, and Marc sighs. Vero frowns at him. 

"You look tired," she says, setting the tips of her fingers to the skin under one of his eyes. "Do you want to take a nap? We could lie down for a while." 

"If I'm just going to sleep, you could still go on your date," he tries. 

"Sure," Vero says, clearly humoring him. "Here, I'll make you chamomile." 

She doesn't bring it up while she gets out the tea bags, or when Marc dumps sugar in both of their mugs, or when they've made it to the bedroom and she's shutting the sunlight out with the curtains. She's clearly not going to sleep, but she lies down next to him, and it's only after he's puts his half-finished tea on the nightstand that she says, "Okay, now tell me what the problem is." 

It's not something new, his attraction. That's not why he's freaking out. Kris is hot, Marc knows this. He's just never wanted to _do_ anything about it before. And even that shouldn't be a big deal, not with the kind of relationship he and Vero have. He's had crushes on teammates before, even acted on some of them, though he usually tries not to mix business with pleasure. The lines get blurred a little, sometimes, but he does his best. 

The problem is, none of them were Kris. None of them were people he's known and worked with forever. None of them were 'three a.m. emergency phone call' sorts of people. And none of them mattered quite as much as this will matter if he goes for it and it messes things up, or if Kris notices and gets weirded out.

But on the other hand, it could be so _fucking good_ with them.

"Okay," Vero says after he's spat all of that out in a messy jumble. It looks like she's thinking through her words. "This is clearly something you want to go for, and I'm all for it. I'm pretty sure Cath wouldn't have any objections, either. Are you sure he wouldn't want to give it a try if you asked him? Does he not want the same things?" 

Marc shakes his head. "I don't know. I don't even know what _I_ want. Sex, sure, but I'd want more than that if he was up for it." 

"A relationship," Vero says, and he nods. Maybe this is the part he should have been worried about—the part where he tells her he's pretty sure he doesn't just want casual hookups if he can have some level of commitment—but he isn't. If Vero has a problem with this, she'll tell him and they'll work something out. 

"And it's not that his friendship doesn't matter to me, because it does," he continues. "I just… fuck. I never thought about what his dick would taste like before, or the noises he'd make when he gets turned on, and now I can't stop thinking about it. It's only been like an hour, fuck." 

"Wait, back up, you guys have never fucked?" Vero says, looking surprised. "I figured… I don't know, after a Cup win or something."

"He wasn't at the orgy," Marc deadpans. 

Vero rolls over and sticks her chin on his pillow, grins. "I know, I was _at_ the orgy. It was fun. I guess I just hadn't realized he wasn't there. Seriously, never?" 

"No." Marc's still feeling serious, even in the face of Vero's playfulness, and her smile fades. 

"Come on, tell me." 

"What if everything changes?" he blurts out. "What if I tell him how I feel and it fucks everything up?" 

Vero doesn't answer for a minute, but Marc doesn't push. He knows her silences, knows when she's working out what to say and not just blowing him off. 

"You remember when we started doing this?" she finally asks. "You were traveling with the team, right at the beginning, and I wanted what I thought were impossible things. And we talked about it. Things changed. Our relationship isn't the same as it was back then, and look how that turned out." 

It hadn't been easy, figuring out what worked for them, and how they needed to communicate, and all the things they could share with each other. But at the same time, it hadn't been… hard. It hadn't felt like losing a part of himself when Vero told him she'd been out, or when he wound up in bed with someone on the other side of the country, all sweaty palms and heartbeat pounding _wrong-but-is-it-wrong_ in his ear. It hadn't hurt to hear about her escapades, or to tell her of his own, or to throw convention to the wayside and just do what worked for them. It'd been this strange combination of exhilarating and terrifying, and he's never regretted where it's led them. 

"I thought I was selfish, and look where we are now," she says.

"You're not selfish," Marc corrects, frowning. 

Vero kisses him, quick and sweet. "I know. Neither are you. I'm not going to tell you not to do this, Marc. I think it's a good thing."

"But—" he starts, and doesn't know how to finish. But what if this is a step too far. What if this causes a fissure in his friendship with Kris—with Cath—that he can't patch up again. What if reaching for this is a mistake when he could simply never bring it up.

Vero fills in the silence without needing to hear his doubts. She must know them already.

"Let him make his own choices. He's your best friend," she whispers. "Even if things change, you're not going to lose that." 

"You're my best friend," Marc corrects her, stupidly emotional. He reaches for her hand, and she threads their fingers together. 

"Yeah," she says, kissing him again. "But I don't score on you in practice." 

***

The four of them—Marc, Vero, Cath, and Kris—have a standing dinner date in the summer. They'll get together to grill if it's not raining, or make something inside if it is. Sometimes they'll go out and try a new restaurant, but it's nice to just hang out together, while away the hours and not have to worry about closing time or other customers who want their table. Luckily it's sunny today, so he and Vero are going over to Kris and Cath's house and grilling steaks. It's also fancy dinner night, which has nothing to do with the food and everything to do with getting dressed up. They don't do fancy dinners a lot, but it's nice to do something different every once in a while. And if Marc's going to make his move, it's as good a night as any. 

"Does my hair look okay?" he asks Vero that evening while they're getting ready. 

"Yes, trust me," she tells him, patient even though this is the third time he's asked. "You look great, stop messing with it. I don't know why you're so nervous, you've been flirting with him for like a decade. You've obviously got that part down." 

"But I mean it this time," he says, holding out his wrists so she can do his cuffs for him. "I dedicated a song to him, for fuck's sake, and he still didn't notice." Granted, he hadn't been serious about that at the time, or he hadn't _known_ he was, but he doesn't think that makes it any better. "I'm like the boy who cried wolf." 

"Marc-Andre, the boy who wanted dick?" Vero asks with a grin as she pops the last button through its hole. Then, when he groans, "Listen, there's flirting and then there's _flirting_. He'll pick up on it." 

Marc shrugs. "Hey, is it dumb that it took me this long to figure this out? I mean, it's been years." 

"No, it's not dumb," Vero tells him, picking through her collection of necklaces. "But it's also not like once you fall in love with someone, you've _always_ been in love with them. It's a process."

Marc frowns at her. "I'm not in love with him," he protests. "I never said that." 

She shrugs, holds up a pendant on a gold chain. "You still love him, though. It's not a bad thing, I'm just saying." 

Marc plucks the necklace from her hand without answering, and she holds her hair out of the way so he can do up the clasp. 

"Ready for this?" he asks, smoothing her hair down when he's done. 

"I think I should be asking you that." Vero turns. "You grab the cookies, I'll get the beer? I think we're going to be late." 

"Deal," Marc says. He still takes a minute to grab a sweater for her before they leave, though. She always forgets, and the nights have been getting colder. 

Kris and Cath are already on the deck when they arrive, and Vero immediately kicks off her flats and heads toward Cath, brandishing the six-pack. Kris is manning the grill, his sleeves rolled up to bare his tattoos to the late afternoon sun. Marc's stomach flutters at the sight of him, and yeah. This isn't going away anytime soon. 

"You look good," Marc tells him, after he's said hi to Cath and put the cookies down. He reaches out and messes with the back of Kris' collar, tries not to smile when he gets swatted at. 

"Complimenting the chef isn't going to make me let you man the grill," Kris says. "We want steaks, not charcoal." 

Marc throws his hands up. "Lies! I cook things just fine. Do you hear how he's slandering me?" he asks the women. Vero is studiously avoiding looking at him, and Cath has an apologetic expression on her face but he can tell she's trying not to laugh. 

"You could burn meat even if the grill wasn't on," Kris continues. "I'm not convinced you and Vero need a stove, actually. You should be able to look at things and heat them up." 

Marc smirks, and Kris rolls his eyes. "You know what I mean." 

"Okay, but you'd leave me to eat cold food when Marc isn't around?" Vero asks, popping the top off a beer and handing it to Cath. "Cruel." 

"Would you rather it be cold or overcooked?" Kris asks, and Marc… well, actually he _can_ believe he's into this asshole. He loves Vero, after all, and she's sweet, but not as sweet as people make her out to be.

"Did you see that article in the paper on the fashion exhibit coming to Pittsburgh?" he asks Cath in the hopes that Vero and Kris will stop snickering at him. "I was going to text you about it, but my phone was dead."

"I did!" Cath says. "It looks pretty interesting, Vero and I were planning to go."

"Great minds," Vero says, adjusting his collar with a wink, and the conversation drifts from there. 

He and Kris end up talking about training camp and some of the speculation surrounding other players. Maybe Marc stands a little closer than he usually would, touches him more frequently, but Kris doesn't call him on it. Marc doesn't restrain himself when he gets the urge to put a hand on Kris' arm at one point, carefully watching for any sign that he's making him uncomfortable. There aren't any, though. Kris simply carries on, and something inside of Marc relaxes imperceptibly. 

Cath isn't paying attention to them, explaining something to Vero with sweeping hand motions, but Marc wouldn't mind if she was watching. She's part of this too, and she has as much of a say in whether he and Kris do anything as Vero does. He doesn't want to hide that he's flirting with her husband like it's something secretive he needs to be ashamed of. They both deserve better than that. 

"Steaks are ready," Kris calls after what feels like no time at all, and the conversation dies down as everybody grabs plates and utensils, passes around drinks to their respective owners. The patio table isn't that large, but they squeeze themselves in. They always eat here unless the weather forces them inside, and it's cozy, even if Marc is sure that when Vero elbows him, it has nothing to do with how close they're sitting. 

"Hey, settle this for us," Cath says once the salad dressing has made its way around the table. "Kris thinks prune juice should be called plum juice instead of the other way around. Which one's right?"

Marc and Vero say, "Prune juice," at the same time, and Cath goes, "Ha!" in triumph. 

"Grape juice isn't called raisin juice," Kris protests. "That's not a thing," and they're off again.

It's one of those perfect early fall days, the sunset reminiscent of a painted backdrop from an old western movie. The strawberries in the salad taste like summer, and the breeze is light and cool against Marc's skin. He's surrounded by his favorite people, there's good food and good conversation, and he has nowhere he needs to be. If that isn't perfection, he doesn't know what is. 

Kris laughs at something he'd said, their feet nudging together under the table, and Vero gives him this look—bright amusement and an arched eyebrow. Marc hides his own smile in his drink. He's going to knock this out of the park. 

***

Vero drives them back home, which is a good thing because if Marc had been at the wheel they probably would have ended up in a ditch. 

"I can talk to Cath," Vero offers when they've made it inside. It's the first time she's broken the silence since they left. 

"Please don't." Marc makes his way to their bedroom and Vero follows, dropping her keys into the bowl on her dresser. He stands in the middle of the room, feeling unmoored for a minute, before sitting down at the foot of the bed. 

"I put my hand on his thigh and he didn't even notice," he groans, covering his face with his hands. "His _thigh._ " 

"I mean, to be fair, you do that a lot," Vero says diplomatically. She sits down next to him. "Remember when my brother thought you were hitting on him?" 

"You said you'd never bring that up again," he says, muffled through his palms. "You promised." 

"I know, but you have to admit it was hilarious." Marc can hear the grin in her voice, the muted thump as she kicks off her sandals. 

Marc disagrees. He redirects. "Do you think he just doesn't want to? Like, was that his way of saying no while trying not to make a big deal out of it? Ignoring everything?" 

Vero gives him a look. "You remember who we're talking about, right? Kris Letang?" and Marc can see her point. While Kris can do passive-aggressive with the best of them, it's not usually his style. 

"I'm mooning over an idiot," he says, flopping down on the bed. 

"Guess you'll have to try harder, then," Vero says. "Are you going to take that off or are you sleeping in your clothes in protest?" 

"Off," Marc sighs, and helps unzip her dress before getting up to change. 

It's still too early to go to bed, but they end up there anyway. Marc reads a couple of news articles on his phone and then loses interest. Vero must pick up on his mood, because once she loses the game she'd been playing on her tablet, she shifts down the bed until she's lying next to him.

"They looked good though, didn't they?" she says, picking up the conversation like they'd never left it. 

"They did." Marc's attention might have been focused primarily on Kris tonight, but the pair of them always look good together. They'd been _vibrant_ at their wedding, like they could have outshone celestial bodies or something equally brilliant. That's what Marc remembers the most about that day. That, and how he'd given Vero a piggyback ride over the hot blacktop to their car when she'd broken a heel. Her dress had been a little short for it, and they'd cackled the whole way without any regard to photographers who might have been in the area. 

"So, you and Kris. Tell me about it?" Vero offers. 

Marc frowns, rolls over onto his side. "What's there to tell, we haven't done anything." 

"But if you did," she says, running her hand up his arm. "What would you want to happen?" 

Ah, like that. He shifts onto his back, spreads his legs a little. They do this sometimes, talk fantasies or recount their latest adventures in the quiet dark of their room. Usually they don't talk dirty about anybody they know well—at least, anybody who doesn't know they're doing it—but this feels different. 

"Only if you tell me how your date with Simone went," he bargains. "I feel like I'm monopolizing things." 

"I like helping. I like you happy," Vero says simply. "But it's not like you have to twist my arm if you want to hear about her." 

"Deal." Once he says that, though, he doesn't know where to begin. Vero must know, because she smiles at him, nudges her foot against his calf under the covers, and starts talking. "So, we were going to try out this new fusion restaurant, but we didn't even make it out the door. It's probably a good thing, too. It's been ages since I've fucked in a bathroom stall, and that's definitely where we would have ended up." 

Marc remembers, he'd been there for the last time. They'd been at a club in Atlanta, picked up someone off the dance floor and ended up in a handicapped stall while the bass thumped through the tile. It'd been grimy and a little risky, even though Atlanta wasn't big on hockey. While it'd been fun, Marc doesn't have any urge to do it again. 

"She has these nipple piercings," Vero continues. "They looked like those snakes that eat their tails, I can't remember what they're called. But she was so sensitive. It's a good thing her wife had the kids, because she's _loud_ , it was so hot."

"Did you play with them? Her nipples?" Marc asks, though if he knows Vero—and he does—there's only one answer to his question. 

Vero grins at him, simultaneously sweet and absolutely scorching. "Until she screamed." 

By the time she's finished recounting her not-date, Marc's hard. Out of the two of them, Vero has always been better at painting a picture with words.

"Do you think she'd be up for it again?" he asks, though he knows the answer already. 

"Oh yes," she says, her eyes dark. "I know you don't like piercings, but I could show you. I'd put clamps on you, wind them tight." She pinches his nipples in demonstration, just a little too hard for comfort. Marc isn't really into pain, but there are exceptions. 

"They'd hurt?" he asks, slightly breathless. 

"Mmm," she hums. "Definitely. I might have to tie you down for it." 

Things get a little off track after that. 

After they've cleaned up, Marc thinks back to their conversation. What _does_ he want?

"I can't stop watching him," he confesses, the words finally ready. "Which is stupid, because it's not like I don't see him basically every day. I want to reach out all the time now. Was it obvious, tonight? Did Cath say anything?" 

Vero hums. "She didn't say anything, but I don't know if that means she didn't notice. I noticed, but then again, I was looking for it. You weren't taking off your clothes and flinging yourself at him or anything, though." 

Marc sighs. "Maybe I should have done that instead."

Vero looks like she's suppressing a smile. "That could have been interesting. Dinner and a show."

"You laugh, but I want to get on my knees for him in the most inconvenient places," he confesses. "Fucking… everywhere. God, it's like I'm fifteen again." 

"It's not as if I've seen it a lot, but he does have a pretty dick," Vero says, tracing the curve of Marc's cheek. He knows she's imagining what he'd look like sucking it, and the thought sends a frisson of warmth through him. "Do you know how he likes to fuck?" 

He shakes his head. He's seen Kris pick up at bars, but he doesn't know that details. It's not really the kind of thing they talk about. "That's okay, you'll have time to figure it out. I bet he fucks like a machine," she muses. 

Marc laughs under his breath, knocks their feet together. "You always say that. It's not just sex, though," he continues. "Like, that's part of it, I want that too, but I also want… breakfasts. Going places just because. Routines and compromises and lazy afternoons. Nothing. We could do nothing together." 

Vero touches her wedding band, spins it with a soft smile. 

"I know I already have a lot of that with him," he continues. "It's just…" 

"Different," Vero finishes. "I know, Marc." 

He has these half-formed fantasies of the four of them living next to each other for the rest of their lives. Or maybe in a big house with a huge yard, planning for the future together. He doesn't know if he'd want that or not in reality, but still. He thinks about it. 

"Would you want to do anything with him, if he wanted?" he asks. They've shared before, but Vero's tastes tend to lean more toward _female_. It's been a while since they've had anything like a perpetual third. 

"I wouldn't say no if it came up," she says. "Maybe with Cath, that could be fun. But no, he can be just yours if you want. And Cath's, obviously." 

"Assuming he even wants the same thing," Marc reminds her. 

"Like anyone could not want you," she says, tracing down the bridge of his nose with a finger.

"Your brother didn't," Marc points out.

Vero sits bolt upright, a manic gleam in her eye. "You!" she says. "You! What happened to 'never talk about it again?' The last time I brought that up, you threw such a fit—" 

"Hey, I didn't say _I_ couldn't bring it up again," Marc interrupts, and gets hit with a pillow for his troubles. 

"Impossible," Vero mutters, settling back down. "See if I help you win Kris' heart now." 

Marc rolls on top of her. "I won yours all on my own, didn't I?" 

"I guess," she says, feigning indifference. Still, she wraps one leg around him and pulls him closer with careful hands. 

***

Vero creates the plan, which is why it reads, "Operation: Work Husband" across the top of the page. As plans go, it isn't much—date ideas, flirting techniques, a list of really bad pick-up lines—but it's more than Marc had been working with. 

He's tried compliments—which had gotten him suspicious looks—taking Kris out for dinner and doing suggestive things to food, and touching him more than usual. Kris is either oblivious or ignoring Marc's advances, and he has no idea which one it is. If he had a sign either way, he'd know if he should drop the whole thing, but he doesn't. Sid knows something's up, but from the looks Marc's been getting he's pretty sure Sid thinks it's a long-term prank. Marc _had_ taped over Kris' skate blades when the opportunity presented itself at practice. Unfortunately, Kris caught it when he was getting ready for practice, so Marc didn't get to see him wipe out on ice. He's still waiting for retaliation from that, actually. 

In between his failed seduction attempts, Marc does a thousand mundane things. He helps Kris make a fancy pasta dish for date night with Cath, and picks up a shirt he thinks Vero would like to wear on first dates, and buys an early Christmas present for his parents. He and Vero get tested for STDs, because it's a good thing to do regularly. At their weekly dinner, Marc wrestles control of the grill from Kris' hands and does _not_ end up burning the pork chops, despite what everyone else says. Vero takes him out to a B&B, and they spend the weekend going on boat rides and making out in various pagodas. She and Kris go to some pottery class and bring back the world's ugliest thrown mugs. He and Cath get lost in Ikea. All four of them close down a karaoke bar with a group of their friends. 

So, pretty much business as usual. 

There's hockey, but there's always hockey. Pre-season is underway and Marc's looking forward to getting in net, but it'll still be a couple more games. In the meantime, he seriously considers going out and trying to pick someone up at a bar just to make sure that he still _can_ , but he's pretty sure the problem isn't his flirting skills. 

"I don't know what to do," he whines into the couch cushion after another failed date. Marc's self-aware enough to know that it's whining, but can't make himself stop. "How do you make it really clear that you want to fuck someone without saying you want to fuck them?" 

"Send him a dick pic," Vero suggests absently, flipping through her magazine. "Unless that's also something you've been doing." 

"Why would I be sending him dick pics?" Marc asks, pushing himself into a sitting position from where he'd been sprawled on the couch. A throw pillow falls on the floor, but he doesn't bother to pick it up. 

"I don't know, it just seemed like the kind of thing you might have stumbled into," Vero says, shrugging. She puts down her magazine, a finger still marking her page. "We're still ruling out the 'talk to him' option?" 

"Yes," he says, flopping back down on the couch. It's dramatic, but he's feeling dramatic. "It's awkward." 

"More awkward than this?" 

"Shut up," he mutters. He picks the pillow off the floor and puts it over his face. He might as well go all in on the dramatic thing. 

"Hmm," is all Vero says. There's the distinct crinkle of her flipping her magazine back open. 

It's not that she's wrong. Marc could. He's capable. He's asked people—asked friends, even—into his bed before, but this feels different. Kris is important, and he'd rather do it like this instead of anything overt. Once the words are out, they have to deal with them, and he doesn't mind taking it slow. He doesn't mind this perpetual thrill of anticipation and nerves.

Okay, maybe Marc _does_ mind waiting, but not enough that he's ready to ask Kris about it. Not yet. He'll give him a little longer to catch a clue. 

"I can't believe you told me to send unsolicited dick pics," he says eventually, after he gets tired of breathing through the pillow and tosses it into the armchair. 

Vero rolls her eyes. "They don't have to be unsolicited, just ask if he wants one first. Say, 'Hey, want to be more than friends? I've got a pic here in case you're on the fence,' and go from there." 

"He's seen my dick before," Marc points out. "I doubt it's going to be a swaying factor." 

Vero smirks. "Don't sell yourself short, sweetheart." 

Marc watches her face for a while as she looks through her magazine. It's on gardening, one of the ones he picks up for her from airports, but it doesn't look like she's reading it too closely judging by how fast she's turning the pages. 

"Is that a thing people want?" he finally asks. "Dick pics?" He's never actually sent one, let alone taken one. He and Vero usually have phone sex if they're apart, and sending one to anyone he's having sex with means thinking about PR should something get leaked. 

Vero shrugs. "I don't know, sometimes. I've never really seen the appeal, but some people do." 

Marc thinks about it, then sighs. "Alright," he says, sitting up. "I'll take one. I guess I should learn." 

Vero laughs at him. "Don't sound so excited about it. Here, you want some help?" She puts the magazine aside and gets up without waiting for his answer, sits beside him on the couch and starts undoing his pants. 

"Fuck," Marc laughs, squirming back. "At least close the curtains first." 

"The neighbors won't get a show, trust me," she says, unzipping his jeans. "And come on, artificial light is _not_ the way to go with this."

If anyone should know, it's Vero. She has a shoebox full of polaroids of him tied up—shadows and light, white sheets and dark hair and the contrast of skin and rope. He's taken some of her as well, but she's the one who's usually behind the camera. 

"How do you take a tasteful dick pic?" he asks once he's hard. He stares at where he's got his hand wrapped around his dick and wonders if he's just supposed to start snapping pictures. He doesn't know if this is supposed to feel sexy or what, but he mostly feels awkward. 

"Are you going for tasteful?" Vero asks, putting her hand over his and nipping gently at his earlobe. "Or are you going for so hot you'd have a straight guy questioning his sexuality?" 

"Is both an option?" He takes a picture on impulse, catching the light reflecting off Vero's nail polish. This one can be just for him. 

"We can do tasteful-sexy if you want," Vero says, running her fingers over the head of his dick. "Here, you start taking pictures, I'll give tips. We can weed them down later." 

"I'm offended that you think all my dick pics won't turn out perfect," Marc says, and takes one of Vero with her tongue stuck out before he gets down to business. 

In the end, he winds up with a bunch of pictures, more because he likes how into it Vero is than because he inherently likes taking them. He's going to have to move the good ones to somewhere secure and delete the rest off his phone, but that's a task for later.

"Do you want to do something with that?" Vero asks, nodding at his still hard dick. He'd been planning on letting it go down on its own, but this sounds more fun. He grins up at her, palms himself with real intent. 

"What did you have in mind?" 

"Oh, I don't know," she says, playing with the waistband of her skirt. "I'm sure I can think of something." She keeps the skirt on and pulls down her underwear, sends it under the armchair with a shake of her foot. Someone is going to have to remember to pick it up so it's not still there the next time they have dinner guests over, but that's a problem for later. 

"I thought you said the neighbors couldn't see," Marc says, starting to kick his shoes off and then giving up when they're laced too tight. 

"What, you don't like the fully dressed look?" Vero asks, climbing on the couch and straddling him. "You weren't complaining last time." 

Marc strips her shirt off, unhooks her bra. "Last time we had like five minutes. I'm pretty sure we've got more time now, unless you've got somewhere to be." 

"Nah," Vero says, grinding down on him in a move that's somehow more filthy for the way her skirt obscures his view. "I'm all yours." 

They set up a slow rhythm, the wetness of her folds sliding against the head of his dick as she rubs against him. Marc puts a hand on her lower back and trails the other one up her side until he can cup a breast. They move together for a few minutes before Vero repositions his dick and sinks down on it in a languid roll of her hips. 

"Good?" he asks, and she kisses him messily in answer, familiar as anything. 

Marc loves fucking her, but he especially loves her in his lap: the solid weight of her, the strength of her thighs, the way they fit together. Her hair is still slightly damp from the shower she'd taken earlier, and he cards through it with his fingers, presses his nose to her temple. When she digs her nails into a nipple, he doesn't see it coming. 

"Fuck," he gasps, hips jerking. 

"Clamps," she reminds him. She tightens down on him, and he's got both hands on her hips now, doesn't remember moving them. Her skirt is rucked up from where she's rubbing at her clit, and she's still pinching his nipple, and he isn't going to last long at all if she keeps this up. 

"Vero, I—" Marc starts, but doesn't manage to finish his sentence. She grazes the edge of his neck with her teeth, and that's all it takes. He comes with his forehead pressed against her shoulder, hands clutching her ass through the skirt. 

"Here," he murmurs when he can loosen his grip. "Up a little," and she goes. He slides a couple of fingers inside of her, and she sighs and arches against him. 

"Right there," Vero says, guiding his hand. "Just like that." 

She rocks against his palm, sucking in measured breaths, and Marc mouths at her neck. He knows just how she likes to be fingered, and he keeps at it until his hand starts to cramp, until he feels the rhythmic fluttering of her muscles. She makes a soft sound when she comes, one he feels down to his toes, and she stays in his lap for a long moment before he slides his fingers out. The clock on the mantle ticks in accompaniment to their breathing. The room smells like sex, but that's what god invented air freshener for. 

"Well, if the neighbors were watching we gave them their money's worth," Vero finally says, untangling herself from him and standing up. She grabs a couple of tissues from the box on the coffee table, and they disappear under her skirt while Marc tucks himself back in. 

"We should charge." He tips his head back against the cushions. "How much is amateur porn going for, these days?" 

"You think we qualify as amateurs?" Vero asks, and maybe she has a point there. She leaves to throw the tissues away, and when she comes back she picks up his phone and starts looking through the pictures. 

"You know, these are actually pretty good," she says, lingering on the one he'd taken with her hand in the frame before swiping past it. After she's made her way through that part of his camera roll a couple of times, she settles on one and hands his phone back. "I like this one the most, I think it hits the tasteful-sexy balance you wanted." 

"Okay," Marc says, staring at the picture. He's not sure what makes it better than any of the other one's he'd taken, but he trusts her. If she says this one is the best, it probably is. 

There must have been something in his voice, because Vero pulls her shirt back on, bra still draped over the arm of the couch. "Hey," she says, scooting close enough that their thighs are touching. "You don't have to send it, I wasn't really being serious." 

"Yeah, I know, it's just… weird, isn't it?" Marc says, scrubbing a hand over his face. "Like, I'm just supposed to drop it in after a text on what bar the team's going to, or what's the best kind of juice?" 

"You talk about juice? The answer is cranberry, you know I'm right." Vero hooks her chin over his shoulder. She goes on before he can answer. "It's fine, Marc, don't stress about it."

"You don't think it's stupid not to just ask him about it?" he says. "There's no way he wouldn't know what I was talking about then." 

He feels her shrug. "Anticipation can be fun," she says. "If you don't want to rush, then don't. It's not like you have to stick to some sort of timetable for these things. I'll love you anyway." 

They sit together for a while in an easy silence, Vero tracing shapes against the back of his hand before she unfolds herself and stands. When she stretches her arms above her head, her elbows pop. "I'm going to heat up that leftover Chinese, do you want some?"

"Sure. Do we still have fried rice?" The sodium content might not technically be in his diet plan, but it'll be fine. 

"Sorry, I ate the last of it the other day," she calls from the kitchen. "Hey, can you grab my underwear when you come? It's kind of drafty in here." 

"You're the one who likes the AC this high," Marc reminds her, but he bends down and pulls it out from under the chair anyway. One less thing to mortify guests with. 

***

Marc doesn't send the pic. Doesn't even ask.

It'd get his point across, Vero had been right about that, but he doesn't want to like… sexually harass one of his best friends if he's reading this wrong. And sure, Kris has seen his dick in locker rooms and showers, before and after practices and games and tournaments, that time—or rather, _times_ —all four of them had gone skinny dipping, but this feels different. There's intent. 

Maybe he'd be more inclined to push if their interactions had changed, grown awkward and strained from Marc's feelings, but it's all so _easy._ Hanging out with him, practicing, going to lunch. They do all the things they usually do, and though Kris might not be picking up on his signals, it's not a hardship to continue on course. Marc would very much like something to come of this, but if not he'll be okay. There's nothing about Kris that feels like settling. 

***

Marc and Cath have a standing date every few weeks where they go out and hit up a couple of stores. Sometimes they buy things—groceries, clothes, stuff for donations, upcoming party supplies—but sometimes they just wander. Marc doesn't know exactly how it became a tradition, just that Vero likes to shop at weird times of the night when the stockers are working, and Kris gets antsy when things take too long. It had simply evolved.

Cath is good company basically all the time, but especially as a shopping buddy. She keeps snacks in her purse and lets him push the cart when he asks and doesn't get bored easily. She actually makes lists of the things she needs, unlike _some_ people. 

Today, their first stop is the mostly barren outdoors section so Marc can pick up some potted plants for Vero. She likes the bedraggled ones: yellowing, wilting, dropping leaves. If it's looking the worse for wear, Vero wants it. She says it's because she likes to save them from getting thrown away, and Marc's sure that's a big part of it, but also: if they die she can claim it wasn't because of her. Vero is many things, but a green thumb is not one of them. 

"Do you want one?" he asks Cath, picking through a bunch of cactuses in spray-painted pots that are starting to flake. He's already got a bunch of different plants in the cart, but really, it's not like he can buy too many. "Vero had a cactus when we were in school. I think she might have overwatered it to death." 

"I'm good," Cath says, fingering an aloe plant that has a couple of nicks taken out of its leaves. "I think plastic ones are about all I can handle. Kris might like one of those yellow ones, though." She points to the far rack, and hidden behind some jade plants are a couple of what look like tiny daffodils bunched together on long stems. 

"He can keep flowers alive?" Marc asks doubtfully, sorting through them. It's not like he can either, but he's going to keep that to himself. 

"It surprised me, too," Cath says, laughing. "There are a lot of things like that. You know he tried to learn how to play the accordion once? I think all the birdsong redoubled for a week in self-preservation. It was _terrible._ " 

"Cath," Marc says, abandoning the plants and taking both of her hands in his. "You know how much I love you, right? Please, please tell me you have video evidence." 

"Maybe," she says, eyes alight. "I don't know if you can afford it, though." 

Sometimes Cath will gang up on Kris with him, but sometimes she wants something in return. Marc calls it blackmail, but it's really mutually assured destruction—one embarrassing piece of evidence for another. Cath is devious like that. 

Still, an _accordion_. 

"You are very evil, and I will no longer bring your favorite cookies to our dinners," he says, pointedly sticking his nose up at her. He could see if Vero has anything embarrassing to trade with, but she always has a little too much fun when he asks her for things like that. 

"Vero makes those cookies, don't even try that with me," Cath says. Then, tapping her chin exaggeratedly as if suddenly remembering, "You know, I think one of the songs was Bohemian Rhapsody. Or, an attempt at least." 

Marc groans. The _things he could do_ with that video. Sure, he can still rag on Kris about it, but it won't be the same. He sighs. "Where did he get an accordion from, anyway?" 

"It was my uncle's, we got it after he died," Cath explains, putting a plant with pink and green speckled leaves in the cart for Vero. Marc can tell it's for her because half of the leaves are missing. "I think it might still be in the attic somewhere, actually. I'm pretty sure I would have remembered if I'd taken it out back and burned it." 

"You could have been in a fugue state," Marc suggests. He holds up the best yellow-flowered plant for her to inspect, because unlike Vero, he doesn't think Kris would like one that looks like it's on its last legs. At Cath's nod, he puts it in the cart. "Okay, I think I'm done here. Did you want to go look at fabric now? I think they're having a sale." 

"Maybe yarn," Cath says, opening up a list on her phone. "I'm going to be helping with a craft group for after-school kids, I need to practice what we're going to be doing first." 

"That sounds cool." Marc starts pushing the cart out of the outdoors section. "What are you making, pot holders and things like that?" 

"Maybe to get them started on learning how to knit or crochet, but there are lots of easy patterns for little animals. Which reminds me, don't let me walk out of here without stuffing, okay?" she says, and he nods. "But ideally there would be something for everyone. I've got lots of ideas, not just knitting stuff, but we can start there and work our way around the store." 

"Fine by me," Marc says. "Want me to get a second cart?" 

Cath squints at her list. "...that's probably a good idea, yeah." 

It turns out to be an excellent decision, because otherwise Marc thinks his plants would be in serious danger of being crushed. There are coffee filters and clothespins, string, twine, popsicle sticks, crepe paper, big bottles of glue and washable paint, construction paper, and whatever Marc tosses in the cart from the craft aisle. Cath tells him she'd ordered some stuff in bulk, like plain coffee mugs and those cups that you can insert pieces of paper into, so they don't bother with those, but it's still a lot. She probably could have gotten most of it in bulk, actually, but she's told Marc before that shopping with him is more fun. It's not like she's short on money, and he's certainly not complaining. 

After they've paid—they usually divide everything up at the self-check, or just take turns paying—they push their latest bounty out to Marc's car. His trunk is usually full of dirt that's spilled out of pots or, on one memorable occasion, a ripped bag of potting soil, so they'd set Cath's bags on the floor of the back seat. The plants get put in the laundry basket he keeps in the trunk for just that purpose. 

"Anywhere else you want to go?" Marc asks. 

"No, I'm good," Cath tells him. "You should probably get those plants home before you forget about them." 

"That was one time," Marc protests, though he does feel a bit guilty about accidentally murdering them. "Vero probably could have done worse." 

Cath laughs at him. "I'm going to tell her you said that." 

Back at Kris and Cath's house there's music coming from the weight room, which means Kris must not realize they've returned—he's not really the type to avoid carrying things inside. Marc helps instead, and when they've got all the bags lined up on the island, he goes back out and pops the trunk.

"Here," he says, passing Cath the little yellow-flowered plant, no worse for wear after its journey. "You give it to him." 

"Are you sure?" she cradles the pot in her hands, one last bag of yarn dangling from her arm. "You picked it out." 

Marc waves her away with a smile. "Nah, it was a joint effort. You're the one who thought to get him one, it should come from you." 

"This isn't going to make me show you the accordion video," Cath warns as he shuts the trunk and gets in the driver's seat, but the corners of her mouth are upturned and there's something considering in her gaze. 

"Cookies," he reminds her, starting the car and putting it in reverse. "Just think of the cookies," and backs down the drive as she cheerfully flips him off with the hand that isn't holding the plant. 

***

Marc is in the middle of doing a load of laundry—or, more accurately, checking the pockets of Vero's clothes for the change she habitually leaves in there—when the doorbell rings. 

"Can you get that?" he yells, dumping three pennies and a crumpled receipt on top of the dryer. He hears Vero say something back, but doesn't catch what. It's probably for her, anyway—she'd told him the other day she'd ordered some things for the yard.

As it turns out, though, it's not solar-powered walkway lights and a bag of landscaping rocks. "Hey," Marc hears, and he turns to find Kris standing in the doorway, hands in his pockets. 

"Hey," Marc says, dropping the shorts he'd been holding back into the laundry basket. "Were we doing something today?" 

"I guess that depends," Kris says. "Were you planning on taking me out to lunch and telling me about your feelings for me?" 

"Oh," Marc says, mouth suddenly dry. "That." 

"Yes, that." Kris doesn't look upset, which is good, but Marc's not going to assume anything. He rallies.

"So?" he says, leaning back against the dryer and trying for casual. "Did you come to let me down gently?" 

"I talked to Cath," Kris says, and Marc braces for what's coming next. _And we decided this isn't something we want to do. And she doesn't want to share me anymore. And I'm sorry, but—_ "She says if we make a sex tape, she wants a copy." 

"What?" Marc says blankly. 

"She likes to watch, sometimes, but we don't actually have to make a sex tape if you don't—" Kris must catch sight of Marc's expression, because he stops. "Did you actually think I wouldn't be down? Marc, you fucking moron." 

"I've been actively hitting on you for weeks," he says, a spark of something wild and joyful expanding inside of him. "I can't help it if you're just that oblivious." 

"You're a flirt," Kris says, crowding him against the dryer. "Like, a serial flirt. I'm not the one at fault here." 

"Vero told me I should send you a dick pic," Marc says, finally starting to laugh. "Do you think you would have gotten the message then, or would you have thought that was normal too?" 

"Shut the fuck up," Kris says, but his words are at odds with the careful way he curls his hand around the back of Marc's head and pulls him in for a kiss. 

It's not quite a first kiss. That honor goes to the Christmas party at Duper's house in 2009 where Marc had kissed him under the mistletoe as a joke. Still, it's a first kiss in all the ways that count. Maybe a little weird at first, but that bleeds away the longer they keep at it.

Kris is the one who finally breaks away, but he stays close, presses his forehead against Marc's. "I don't know why you didn't feel like you could just tell me," he says, quietly. "You're my best friend, we tell each other things." 

"Not _this_ ," Marc protests. "And I wasn't horrifically pining or anything. I was just… taking my time." And that brings up another question. "What finally clued you in?" he asks, pulling back enough that he can look at him, but keeping his hands curled around Kris' waist. 

"Cath told me," Kris says.

"Vero told her?" Marc asks, heart sinking. He hadn't thought she would, but maybe she'd thought this was best, gotten tired of him complaining and never doing anything about it. 

"No, she kind of… figured it out," Kris says, shrugging. "Apparently you've been making some pretty serious heart eyes." 

"I don't make heart eyes," Marc protests, but he's thinking about the other day, when all four of them had gone out to the lake on what appeared to be the last warm day of the year. He remembers what Kris looked like in his trunks, the way the sun caught on his skin. He'd asked Marc to put sunscreen on his back, and it'd probably been pretty obvious to anyone with eyes how Marc felt. Everyone except Kris, of course.

"So, how long have you been not-making heart eyes at me?" Kris asks, clearly humoring him. 

"Maybe a while, I don't know," he says, shrugging. His face feels a bit warm. 

"'Maybe a while?'" Kris repeats, eyebrows raised. "That's it, that's what you have for me?" 

"Shut up, I don't see you giving me a time frame either, here," Marc says, digging his fingers into Kris' sides until he squirms and elbows him. "Why are you asking, anyway?" 

Kris shrugs. "I'm trying to figure out whether I should take you out on a date first or just get down to blowing you. Both options seem pretty good to me, but it kind of depends on what you want."

"Yeah?" Marc says with a smile. Fuck, he wants all of that. "This isn't a one-time thing?" It'll be fine if it is, but he'd rather know now if this is something Kris is just trying out. 

"I wouldn't be here if that was the case," Kris tells him, his eyes serious. "You know me better than that. I don't know everything I want out of this yet, but I know that much." 

"Alright," Marc says. "You know, I'd be okay if it was a one-time thing. Just as long as we were on the same page." 

Kris looks at him with exasperated fondness. "I don't want just one night. You can help me figure out everything else. I think the question is, what do you want?" 

"Stay for dinner," Marc says, feeling oddly daring at asking for such a sure thing. "Cath's invited too, obviously. I'm down with pretty much everything else."

"Everything?" Kris asks. Marc nods, anticipation building in his stomach, and then they're kissing again. 

Marc knows Kris' skin explicitly—arms slung across each other in victory and comfort, back pats and high-fives, hands held tight during the worst nights. He knows it by sight and by touch, but never by taste. Never like this. 

For all that he's imagined, even talked with Vero about this, it's different when he's got Kris up against him. He tastes faintly like spearmint, as if he'd eaten a couple of breath mints before coming over, and Marc _wants_. He wants everything—the two of them naked and tangled together, the three of them, the _four_ of them. He's greedy. He wants everything he can get. 

They shift, and Marc ends up backed into the dryer, Kris' thigh pressed between his legs. Marc's hand slides against the metal when he puts it down behind him for balance, but his focus is on the thing Kris is doing with his tongue and how his clever hands are rucking up the back of Marc's shirt. 

It's good—it's _great_ —but it's rapidly verging on too much. Marc feels coiled tight, getting everything he wanted at once when he hadn't been prepared for it. His pulse is pounding, this uneven, jagged thing moving inside of him, and he can't tell if it's the kissing that's making him breathless or something else. 

Kris runs his nails down Marc's spine, and Marc arches, bangs his foot into the dryer without meaning to, which causes Kris to break the kiss. He pulls back a little, and Marc doesn't know what he sees, but he's seen enough of Vero's pictures to guess. Dark eyes, red lips, mussed hair. Whatever it is, it's enough to make Kris pause. 

"Maybe a little slower," Kris says almost to himself. Then, "Hey, we can take this somewhere else. I brought you guys some coffee, it's on the island." 

"Later," Marc says. "Just…" He reaches out, and Kris meets him when Marc leans forward for another kiss. This one is chaster, slow even when Marc bites at his bottom lip. 

"There's no rush," Kris says around the kiss, but Marc shakes his head. 

"I'm good, I just needed a minute. Trust me, you'll know if I want to stop. After all," he continues, feeling more at home in his skin, "don't you know I put out on first dates?" 

"Are we counting this as a date?" 

"We are now," Marc says, running his fingertips over Kris' cheek. The skin is smooth, not a trace of his usual stubble. "Did you shave before you came over?" 

"Cath likes me clean, sometimes," Kris confesses. "She thought you might, too."

Marc ducks his head, though he's sure that doesn't hide his smile. "So, a sex tape, huh?" 

"If you're okay with someone watching, she'd like that too," Kris adds, running a hand through his hair like maybe he's not sure what to do next. 

Marc's equilibrium is returning, and while there's a smattering of nerves playing through him, it's the normal kind that's made up of anticipation and excitement and curiosity about the unknown. Even then, he isn't really nervous at all. Not with Kris. 

"Want to see where we keep the bed?" he asks, like Kris hasn't been in their bedroom a million times before. "Just so you can get an idea of where to put the cameras for Cath, of course." 

"Oh, of course," Kris says. "You're sure?" and Marc knows he's not asking about their hypothetical sex tape now.

He grins. "Fuck yes." 

This time when Marc kisses him, it isn't too fast at all. 

When they make their way out of the laundry room a couple of minutes later, they cross paths in the hallway with Vero. She smiles at them, impish, and says, "Oh, hey. I see you two worked things out." 

"Thanks for warning me who was here," Marc says, but he reaches out and pulls her in, kisses her deeply in front of Kris. He already knows they're together, it's not like he's going to mind. Marc never goes out with anyone who does. 

"I did," Vero protests. "You should have answered the door yourself." She looks over at Kris. "We don't have any rose petals for me to scatter, but I put mood music on the stereo. It'll have to do." 

"Rose petals?" Kris repeats, looking slightly bemused. 

"What, I can't celebrate my husband getting laid?" She kisses Kris on the cheek, then squeezes Marc's arm. "Simone had a baking emergency. I'm going to help her make a million cupcakes so her wife doesn't get destroyed at the next PTA meeting, wish me luck."

"Bring me back a couple?" Marc asks hopefully. 

Vero snorts. "Obviously, who do you think I am?" and heads toward the kitchen with a wave. 

Over the sound of cabinet doors opening and closing, Marc turns to Kris and says, "Lead on," and Kris does. 

"Music?" Kris asks once they're inside the bedroom.

"Might as well," Marc tells him, palming Kris' side under his shirt. He's warm and here, and Marc doesn't care about much more aside from that.

The stereo's volume is low, and Marc's pretty distracted discovering how Kris likes to be kissed, so it's not until the vocals get louder that Marc realizes what Vero's put on. 

"Is this really your sex music?" Kris asks, breaking off from what he'd been doing to Marc's jaw. The orchestra is swelling, deep and dramatic. "You landed Vero with this?" 

"Vero!" Marc yells down the hall as Celine Dion starts up the scale, singing about how her heart will go on. He doesn't know if it's a best hits CD or if Vero had made a mixtape specifically to embarrass him after he'd told her about the jukebox incident. Either way, the outcome is the same. 

"Have fun," he hears her call, laughter evident in her voice, before the front door slams. 

"This isn't my sex music," Marc tries, catching sight of how Kris is grinning. "It's not." 

"Sure, Rose," Kris says, reeling him in by his belt loops. "Whatever you say." 

"I'm not—I'm not Rose," Marc gets out between kisses. "You're Rose." 

Kris makes a faintly disbelieving noise and backs him into the bed, and Marc pulls him along when he falls backward. Kris climbs on top, hovering over him on his hands and knees, and he lets out a surprised sound when Marc rolls them. 

"Marc," he says, looking up at him, so familiar and yet so new all at once. His fingers are tight around Marc's bicep, and it doesn't actually matter which one of them is Rose, or that the stereo is still on, or that Marc had been planning on washing these sheets in the next load of laundry. 

"Yeah," Marc says. "Yeah," and holds on tight to Kris and to this new-old beginning taking shape between them. 


End file.
